


convivere (how your garden grows)

by Satan In Purple (purple_satan)



Series: Snarky Science Wives of Overwatch [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, General Creepiness, Poisoning, This is not healthy, stalker!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 09:19:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13455216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_satan/pseuds/Satan%20In%20Purple
Summary: A few unfortunate souls in the past have tried to poison Moira O'Deorain, before she joined Overwatch. But none ever so boldly and with such audacity and cheek, as her coworker and labmate, Dr. Angela Ziegler.





	convivere (how your garden grows)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aicosu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aicosu/gifts).



> Mercy isn't nearly the angel people think she is, and no one can convince me otherwise. This was after many long discussions with Aicosu that we need more of both Moira _and_ Angela being problematic, and was long overdue to be posted  <3
> 
> Many thanks to [cyborgshepard](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cyborgshepard) for reading the rough draft of this and convincing me it wasn't just a mess!

 

It’s strychnine in her coffee on Tuesday.

Pedestrian, _really._ A few unfortunate souls in the past have tried to poison Moira O'Deorain, before she joined Overwatch. But none ever so boldly and with such audacity and cheek, as her coworker and labmate, Dr. Angela Ziegler.

Proof that, indeed, appearances can be deceiving.

“Something wrong, Dr. O’Deorain?”

Angela looks up from her own paperwork as Moira’s pen drops in the middle of her taking notes. It clacks loudly as it falls to the floor, rolling under her desk.

“I’m fine,” she replies. She straightens her posture and retrieves another pen from her desk. No point now in looking for the one lost. A fine tremor runs up her right hand, and she drops the pen again.

_Odd._

She tries again. It slips out of her grasp.

Looking up from her paperwork she sees Angela, still buried nose deep in her notes, no longer concerned. Frowning, she glances at the coffee mug on her desk to the left.

It’s half full, the coffee still sitting peacefully in its cheery yellow mug, one of Angela’s. She had gulped down at least a mouthful of it as soon as it reached her hands, thanking the other woman with silence as she let the bitter taste wash over her, the earthy aroma briefly overpowering the bitter antiseptics of their shared lab.

Not once did she ever question Angela’s generosity as coming with strings. Or petty vengeance. Maybe she should have.

Angela finally sets down the papers in her hands, turns to her.

“You look unwell.”

“Nonsense.”

“That’s my professional opinion.”

“ _Is binn béal ina thost,_ ” Moira growls back, but Angela just raises an eyebrow in reply.

Her mind rushes through the list of things her coffee could have been laced with. All the different things they have access to. They both have access to any number of untraceable paralytics, biotoxins, but no— _too clinical_. This was personal. Probably days of carefully dosing her in small increments, almost lovingly so, until her body finally couldn’t take the effects of the poison.

Her vision narrows, sharpening around the edges and reminding her time is of the essence. Casually brushing her hand over the cup to test its temperature, she holds Angela’s gaze.

Twenty minutes.

She looks around the room for clues, surroundings momentarily blurring with the jerky movement of her head. Angela is saying something in the background to her but her voice is hollow, echoing off the walls of the lab while Moira _thinks_ —thinks what it could be.

_What would be personal enough for Angela Ziegler?_

Angela, who collects mismatched coffee mugs and sends perfectly thought out thank you cards each holiday. Angela, who asks co-workers about their families in her spare time, but never shares her own. Angela, who works and works and works tirelessly for answers only to have Jack, Ana, Torbjorn— _even Moira herself_ —take them from her. Angela looking at her like she hung the moon in the sky one night long ago. Angela, with tears in her eyes the next morning. Angela, with a sprig of flowers in her hair. Angela, with dirt under her nails another.

_Angela, Angela, Angela..._

Angela likes plants. Flowers. Has made comments in the past. Long ago she was in Angela’s dorm while they were new. They drank wine from the bottle and paper cups. Angela rested her head on her shoulder and waxed poetic about a potted plant—a gift from Genji after his recovery—what was the color of its blooms?    

Aconite? Strychnine? Nerium? Belladonna?

As she goes down a mental checklist, a rictus grin spreads across her face. The muscles of her stomach contract painfully, then release as a wave of nausea washes over her.

The list significantly shortens.

_Yes, of course._

The others are more romantic, more poetic. Those won’t do. Angela chose for her a classic as brutal as they come in its effectiveness, something straight out of a dimestore mystery novel.

The paralytic of the toxin is working quicker than originally predicted then. Seizures may follow. Strychnine poisoning has no true antidote, but the effects can be mitigated with a few different things they have in the lab cobbled together.

Reciting the things she needs to scour the lab for in her head, she gets up from her desk. Opens cabinets quickly. Counts down the time she has before she loses full functionality of her body, followed by coma and death. Checks vial after useless vial before tossing them aside, glass clinking against glass. Each precious moment she doesn’t find what she needs is time wasted, now under Angela’s watchful gaze.

“Looking for something, _schätzi?”_ Angela asks innocently, big blue eyes and a saccharine smile. She sits on the corner of her desk just barely in periphery, calmly sipping at her own coffee. Her own garish colored mug is cradled between her hands, fingers splayed against the ceramic.

“Something—” Moira croaks. Her tongue feels like its made of lead, thick in her mouth that's suddenly dry. She clenches her fists, knuckles white. The numbness spreading through her fingertips doesn’t go away.

_Charcoal. Phenobarbital, diazepam. Dialysis preferred._

“A personal project.”

She’s still trying to find what she should have already, pulse racing rabbit-quick as the tachypnea sets in, heart hammering away in her chest. The shallow breaths she takes ringing far too loudly in her ears as she pries another drawer open, rifling through its contents in frustration.

Angela has her arms crossed, leaning against the cabinets next to her.

And she’s bright— _too bright,_ distracting. Like staring at the sun during an eclipse. Radiant in the early morning light slanting through the open slats of the lab window blinds, the glow casting her in technicolor shades of yellow-orange that pulse with the ebb and flow of her breathing as reality warps and goes soft around the edges.

 _Seven hells,_ she didn’t factor in psychotropic effects.

“Strychnine, right? Then—I need—” Moira begins, listing the required materials like the answers to a test— _And isn’t that what this is, a test?_

Angela shushes her with a finger to her lips, shaking her head.

“You really haven’t the time to self-administer, _Doktor."_

Moira pushes her out of the way, tries another drawer. Angela slams it closed with her hip, nearly shearing off Moira’s searching fingers in the process.

“I played your little game, Angela.”

“Game?” Angela’s blue eyes narrow dangerously. “Was it a game when you stole my articles— _my life’s research —_and corrupted it?”

Moira reaches out a shaking hand against the woman who’s blocking her, weakly grasping her neck. Angela tilts her chin to give her better access, letting out a shuddering sigh as sharp nails graze her skin. “Spare me the morality if you aren’t going to save me, Ziegler.”

“ _Tch!_ — _Der Schein trügt._ You think I’d just roll over just like this for you, _ja?”_

She bats Moira’s hand away easily.

“The great Dr. Zeigler's not such a pacifist then. _Good.”_ Moira barks out a laugh, using the full weight of her body to pin Angela to the cabinets if her hands can’t do it for her. Trap her, bind her. Take her down with her. “I postulated your research could be further _modified_ because it was what was needed for progress. _”_

“Your idea of progress is a terrible thing, O’Deorain. It’s unethical— _unscientific!_ —I want no part of it.”

For once in her life, Moira bites her tongue and Angela rewards her with a wry smile.

“You made me have to adapt to survive you. Are you proud?”

“Immensely. I’ll savor it before hypoxia sets in.”

“Any moment now.” Angela taps the watch on her wrist. The silence hangs between them as the seconds tick by. Slowing down and speeding up with every labored inhalation, exhalation. Angela cups her face with one hand and Moira knows it’s there, sees it there. Doesn’t feel it when she pats her cheek.

“This becomes you, O'Deorain. Stills your wicked tongue. _”_

There’s a crude reply on the tip of it. A reminder of things her tongue could do Angela certainly did find suitable and enjoyed at the time, but then the white tiles of the floor are rushing up to greet her and everything goes cold and bright. Her vision whites around the edges, smelling of Angela’s floral perfume, as she inhales one last time.

It smells like an embrace, it smells like a homecoming.

It smells terrible.

 

* * *

 

  
Cadeceus staff in hand, the normally petite blonde towers over Moira’s prone body on the cold floor. Blearily blinking her eyes, Angela swims into focus above her.

She smiles angelically as she bends down and checks Moira’s eyes, then pulse. Runs an index finger down the bridge of her nose, her lips. Leans over and kisses her cold lips chastely. Moira can feel the tips of Angela’s golden hair brush her cheeks, the faint exhale of warm breath before the other woman’s lips touch hers. The kiss becomes harsher when Moira doesn’t kiss her back. Angela’s teeth scrape at her bottom lip as she pulls away. She tries to curl numb fingertips to no avail, to grab a hold of the woman hovering above her and strangle her.

“I’ll take care of you,” Angela sing-songs, accented voice lilting in a parody of affection. “I still need you, _schätzi.”_

It’s the last thing she hears before her back seizes, contorts. The painful jolt of the caduceus giving back her life runs through every cell in her body, ripping through her nervous system like a wildfire.

Moira’s hands reflexively fly to her throat as she gasps for air, scrabbling as she gulps in lungfuls to combat the oxygen-deprived state her body was in. She feebly lifts her upper torso off the floor to loosen the tie at her neck as a coughing fit racks her body. She props herself up on her forearms, twisting her torso to retch on the tiled floor a rancid mixture of bile and tainted coffee.

Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she glares as Angela looks down at her.

“A lesson if you steal from me again.” Angela sneers, lip curling in distaste and it’s the most attractive Moira thinks she’s ever seen her.

 _“Nách mór an diabhal thú, Mercy,”_ she spits on the ground, the last word as foul a taste in her mouth as her own sick. “If they only knew the real you. Give in one hand and take away with the other?”

“That’s your brand of barbarism, Moira. Not mine."

Angela affectionately pats the older woman on the head, mussing her copper hair as she walks by. Picking up the tainted coffee cup on her desk, she lines up her lips where Moira’s once were and drains the rest of it in one gulp, staining the rim with her peach lipstick.

“I’ll go get you some coffee so we can start a pleasant day in the lab. What do you say?”

Licking her lips, she sashays out the lab door. The yellow mug cheerfully swings from her crooked index finger as she leaves, doors swinging behind her.

She doesn’t look back once at Moira still sprawled out on the floor.

 

* * *

 

A collection of slides, slotted into a carved mahogany box. A list of vials and their locations, creased and wedged into the pages of a poetry book. A straight razor, tortoiseshell handled and sharp enough to slice clean through cadaver skin with a matching comb, teeth intact. A single pressed cream colored bloom between panes of glass, dried and crumbling at the edges. The faded label to a bottle of whisky, Connemara single malt. A photo of a woman with hair the color of burnished pennies scratched and stained in places, the note on the back written in Gaelic— _Giorraíonn beirt bóthar. Do stór mo chroí, C._

A small menagerie of mementos, just odd enough to not be overly sentimental.

Rifling through the locked desk of Moira O’Deorain would tell one little else about her other than a terrible affinity for scholarly papers and working overtime, a lack of notes and replicable findings. Her only dangerous obsession, perhaps, a passion for scientific exploration a bit shy of being entirely ethical.  

But the desk also contains secrets far more private than she’d be willing to admit to, and it’s not until Angela has completely left the room that she gets off the ground and opens the locked drawers. She has to work quickly if she is going to add to a list of effects she has currently in her possession.

Moira finds a kit in the back, ripping efficiently through the sterile plastic and tossing it in the waste bin. She quickly swabs her lips and gums before Angela returns. She wishes Angela didn’t take the coffee cup— _her_ coffee cup—but this will do, has done in the past. Then its just a matter of muscle memory as she prepares the slide. She’s barely done putting on the cover and slotting the slide in the wooden box, nestling the fragile glass between others, when Angela strolls back in the lab with coffee.

The other woman is suited up full valkyrie, staff in hand and wings gleaming behind her as she navigates the lab equipment with ease over to Moira’s desk. Depositing the new cup in front of her with a wink, she bends to look over Moira’s shoulder. Her armored breasts brush against Moira’s back, warm breath in the shell of her ear.

“But _was_ it strychnine _?"_   She asks, playing with the fine hairs by Moira’s collar. “I keep all sorts of strange things around the lab. Silly me, we may never know.”

She steps back with a laugh, the sound hollow as it echoes through the lab. Testing her wings, she opens them a few times before folding them back into a prone position on her back. Makes a show of checking and then double checking the safety on her blaster and adjusting her headpiece.

“No time to dawdle, _liebling_ , we have work to do,” she sighs, making an impatient noise as she watches Moira eye the steaming cup of coffee. “Jack wants to field test the Cadeceus today and you volunteered. No progress without experimentation, _ja?_ ”

Moira nods, maintaining eye contact with the far too crafty woman in front of her, as she wraps her fingers around the hot ceramic and pulls it closer for a nice big sip.

**Author's Note:**

> if you enjoy the darker side of moicy, follow me on tumblr @ either [purple-satan-fic](http://purple-satan-fic.tumblr.com) for my fic or [satan-in-purple](http://satan-in-purple.tumblr.com) for more overwatch and star wars stuff!


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